
:_' •*. =_r 



Class _i5i3-: 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



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i,^^,-^ 



Bound & Free 



TWO DRAMAS 

By 
HUGH MANN 




^ 



V ^}ART1 et V6R1TATI H. 

BOSTON: RICHARD G. BADGER 

C[)e (Bax\)uvx ^vtse 

1904 



Copyright 1903 by Richard G. Badger 
All rights reserved 



LISriASY of CONGHlSS 
Two Copies Hccelved 

NOV 7 19^4 

Coyynsni ttitry 

VHrC:7, «'»oi/ 

CLASS & XXc. No: 

5737 

COPY B. 






P 



«v 



PRINTED AT 

THE GORHAM PRESS 

BOSTON, U. S. A. 



BOUND 



CHARACTERS 

CHARLES BURTON — Wealthy lawyer of the 
firm of Burton & Westbrook in the city 
of B . 

EDWARD WESTBROOK — Partner and 
bosom friend of Charles Burton. 

ALICE BURTON — Wife of Charles Burton. 

HELEN WESTBROOK — Wife of Edward 
Westbrook. 

ETHEL BURTON — Child of ten years, 
daughter of Charles and Alice Burton. 

HOBBS — Serving man in the Burton house- 
hold. 

The action takes place in one day in Charles 
Burton's house. Act ist, morning; Act 2d, 
afternoon ; Act 3d, evening. 



ACT FIRST 

{Morning in early Summer.) 

Scene — A charming morning-room, zvith 
three large French zinndozvs in rear, open to 
the mild air, giving upon a broad piaaca, and 
looking out upon rather extensive grouiids for 
city limits. The room is fnrnisJied richly but ex- 
quisitely as a lady's boudoir, but used in the 
first act as a breakfast-room, having a table 
daintily appoi)ited for three placed near one of 
the large zinndozt's. Doors at cither end lead- 
ing to other parts of house. 

{Curtain rises upon Charles and Alice Burton 
seated at either end of table, zmth Ethel betzveen 
them and facing the audience. They have just 
finished breakfast. A man-servant [Hobbs] 
stands zvith tray in hand back of Charles Bur- 
ton's chair.) 

Alice Burton {to servant) — Hobbs, you 
may retire. If Mr. Burton wishes more coffee 
I will serve him. 

{Hobbs places morning paper by Mr. Bur- 
ton's plate and goes out.) 

{Charles Burton has a moody, preoccupied air. 
He unfolds his paper and retires behind it. Alice 
Burton's expression shozvs an exalted air and 



8 BOUND 

mood, hilt, at the same time, a consciousness of 
disturbing elements without. She beams upon 
Ethel the more szveetly, hoivever, that the child's 
father seems disposed to be ungracious.) 

Ethel — O mamma! How perfectly lovely 
it is to be old enough to eat at table with you 
and papa ! 

Alice — Yes, darling. We are very pleased 
that you have learned your table lessons so nicely 
that we can have you with us. 

Ethel {insistently to her father) — Isn't it 
lovely, papa? Aren't you glad? 

Charles {ahsentmindedly behind his paper) 
— Yes, dear, — papa and mamma are very glad 
to have their little girl at table with them. 

Ethel — I told Fanny Hudson that I was old 
enough to eat at table with you and papa, and 
she said, " My papa and mamma do not eat to- 
gether." Then I said, " Why ? " And she said, 
"They don't live together," {Charles gives a 
little start behind his paper, and covers it zvith 
a cough.) Think of that, mamma! What can 
be the reason ? I didn't like to ask Fanny. Oh, 
I do hope that you and papa will always live to- 
gether. 

Alice {with agitation) — Why, Ethel dar- 
ling! What makes such thoughts come into 
your head? Because Fanny Hudson's mamma 



BOUND 9 

and papa do not live together that is no reason 
why yours should not. 

Ethel — Oh, no, mamma, of course. But it 
makes Fanny so sad. She lives with her papa 
and her grandmamma. Her father is quite stern. 
She used to go to see her beautiful mamma, 
whom she loves, but now that she is older her 
papa will not allow her to go at all. So instead 
of being glad to be growing older, as I am, she 
is very sorry, 

Charles {irritably, loivering his paper, to 
Alice) — Why do you allow Ethel to associate 
with — these people? 

Alice {zuith dignify) — The child goes to 
Ethel's school. 

Ethel — Yes, papa, and she is my dearest 
friend. And she's lovely, — yon would think 
so too if you knew her. But papa ! When 
shall I be old enough to go into your den? 

Charles — Not for many a day. — Not for 
many a day! Why do you wish to go into my 
den? There is nothing there to interest little 
girls. (Trying to lighten his expression some- 
what for the child's sake.) 

Alice — No, no, Ethel, — papa doesn't even 
like mamma to go into his den. 

Ethel — But, papa, why do you have it? — 
and so separate from all the rest of the house 



16 BOUND 

that one must go 'way outside to get into it, 

and with no windows to look out or see in? 

Charles {trying to speak lightly) —Fapa. 
needs a cage to retire into when he wishes to 
play bear. 

Ethel — What does that mean, mamma? 
Alice — When he doesn't wish to be polite 
and kind to other people. 

Ethel (reproachfully) —O papa! But I 
might go in when you are not there. 

Charles — No, no, Ethel! My den is al- 
ways locked. 

Alice — Yes ; and no one else has a pass-key 
except Hobbs and — 

Charles — Except Hobbs and (mith a pe- 
culiar lozvering look at Alice) Mr. Westbrook. 
Ethel — Uncle Edward ! 
Charles — Ethel, you are getting too old to 
say Uncle Edward. He is not your uncle, you 
know. You should say Mr. Westbrook. 

Ethel — Oh, but, papa, I love Uncle Edward 
too well to call him Mr. Westbrook. And Hobbs ! 
— yes, he has a pass-key. But he wouldn't let 
me in for the world. I begged him one whole 
afternoon. 

Charles (^^m^/3;) — Now, now, Ethel; you 
must never do that again. Hobbs has his orders. 
Papa has his den for a place in which to be safe 



BOUND II 

from all intruders. I will show you the inside 
of it one of these days to convince you that there 
is nothing- there to interest you. But now kiss 
mamma and me good-bye and run away to pre- 
pare for school. 

{Ethel kisses both parents brightly and runs 
away, turning to kiss her Jiands to them as she 
goes.) 

Alice (rather timidly) — Charles, what do 
you know of these Hudsons? 

Charles (testily) — What should I know of 
them, more than you do? 

Alice — Only that you have lived here all 
your life, and so have they, I understand. 

Charles — Well ! What do you want to 
know about them? 

Alice — Nothing, except your reason for not 
wishing Ethel to associate with them. 

Charles — I — I — didn't say that — did I ? 
Mrs. Hudson — does not — love her husband — 
she refuses to live with him — he will not grant 
her a divorce, — that is all there is to it — (speak- 
ing hesitatingly and confusedly) . 

Alice — Do you know anything more against 
her than that? 

Charles (fiercely) — Why do you pester me 
about the woman ? What interest have I in her ? 

Alice (gently) — I have no wish to pester 



12 BOUND 

you. Are you worried over business aiffairs? 
You are not yourself lately. 

Charles — Yes — No ! — I must go to E. 
for a few days, on some troublesome business. 
Tell Hobbs to pack my grip ; I'll be back from 
the office in an hour {looking at his zuatch). 

Mrs. Westbrook {at door, being ushered in 
by Hobbs — to Alice) — I asked Hobbs to bring 
me right in here. Good morning, Charles ! 
{shaking hands with Mr. Burton). {To Alice) 
You don't mind, dear? 

Alice — Indeed no, Helen. Come right in. 
We breakfast here these fine mornings, you see. 
— Charles, Ethel, and I. I will ring to have 
the table removed. Sit down. Will you take 
off your hat? 

Charles — Well, I must be off. {To Mrs. 
Burton) I'll tell Hobbs about the grip myself 
as I go out. {To Mrs. Westbrook) Good-bye, 
Helen. 

Helen {seating herself) — {To Charles) 
Good-bye. {To Alice) No, I can't stay, dear. 
{Charles goes out.) I just came over to have 
a little chat with you. Is anything the matter 
with Charles? He doesn't look well. 

Alice — He just confessed to me that he is 
worried over some affairs of business, — but I 



BOUND 13 

am inclined to feel that this is not all that ails 
him. 

Helen — So Ethel breakfasts with yon now. 
(With a sigh) Oh! I wish I had a child. I 
think Edward wonld be happier. 

Alice (luith some nervousness of manner) — 
Do you think so? Does he seem unhappy f 

Helen — Oh, no. Not unhappy, — and he is 
always kindness and consideration itself to me, 
I sometimes think he tries to make up to me by 
his tenderness for the dearth of a child. But he 
does not seem to find as much pleasure in me, 
— in my society, — in his home, — as he used. 
Do all husbands become thus — thus disaffected 
in time? Is this what one should expect? 

Alice — I — I — suppose so. It is my ex- 
perience ; and if we should have a chance to 
compare notes with other women as intimately 
as you and I do — we should doubtless find it 
that of the average wife. 

Helen — Do you suppose it is because our 
husbands become interested in some other 
woman ? 

Alice (in confusion) — Oh, Helen ! — I — 
I — am sure I cannot tell. But (recovering her- 
self) if Charles should become interested in some 
other woman, — I think I should — should — 
not mind. 



14 BOUND 

Helen — Not mind, Alice ? Why, you surely 
cannot love Charles as you should if you can say 
that. 

Alice — I do not know whether I love Charles 
as I should, — hut I do know that I can say that 
of him. And, indeed, I cannot imagine myself 
loving any man in a way that would prevent my 
saying it of him also, and feeling it. 

Helen — But suppose he should become more 
interested in some other woman than in you? 

Alice — Well, dear, I could not help that, 
could I ? Nor could he ! 

Helen — No ! — but do you mean to say you 
would not mind it? 

Alice — No! Not if we were, all three, 
honest and simple about it, and accepted the truth 
and acknowledged it to one another. 

Helen — O Alice ! How can you say such 
things ? 

Alice — Helen, if a man were my soul-mate 
he could not become more interested in some 
other woman than in me, — and if he were not 
my soul-mate I should zvish him to be most in- 
terested in his 07ini soul-mate, whoever she might 
be, — shouldn't I? And even if he zvcre my 
soul-mate I should wish him to be interested in 
all other women who attracted him, — to what- 
ever degree he could. 



BOUND 15 

Helen — What an original you have always 
been, Alice ! I don't think I quite get through 
my head what you are saying. But how is one 
to know one's soul-mate? 

Alice — Oh, Helen, that is a hard question ! 
It does not seem to be given to many of us to 
know our soul-mate and to be known of him — 
in time. We make mistakes, and the world goes 
on getting more and more tangled up in this re- 
gard because our customs and standards — our 
legal bonds — prevent us from rectifying these 
mistakes. 

Helen — But surely, Alice, you would not do 
away with legal bonds as to marriage, for in- 
stance ? 

Alice — Helen, dear, it is so difficult to speak 
freely of these things, and it is so useless to say 
what one zvould do, in a social order where one 
is perfectly poivcrlcss to do as one would. But 
if I could have my way, I would have no legal 
bond in marriage to begin wnih. 

Helen — But, Alice ! How shocking ! Would 
you have a man and woman just go and live 
together for a time, and then each go and live 
with some one else when he or she wished? 
Why, that would be free love ! 

Alice {wearily) — Helen, isn't it quite use- 



i6 BOUND 

less to say what one would have when one must 
have things quite different? 

Helen — Yes, I suppose so. I ivonld have a 
child, for instance, and I must be childless. I 
wonder if I should have had children if I had 
married some one else. But that is unthinkable ! 
I could never have married any one but Edward. 

Alice — Helen, you are an honest woman, — 
do you mean to say truthfully that you never 
loved, — or even thought you loved anyone but 
Edward? 

Helen — No, Alice, — I think I can truthfully 
say that I never did. Have you ever loved any- 
one else but Charles? 

Alice — Oh, yes ! I have loved a number of 
men. 

Helen — But not all of them in the same 
way? 

Alice — Not to the same degree. No. I have 
loved only one man supremely, — but — if I un- 
derstand what you mean by " the same way," 
— yes ! I think I have loved all of those men 
in the same way. 

Helen {catching her breath) — Well, then, 
Alice, — have you loved them all at the same 
time, in the same way? Perhaps that is what I 
mean. 

Alice {smiling) — Yes. I think I have loved 



BOUND 17 

several — two or three, at least — at the same 
time and in the same way. I did not know all 
of the men I have loved — at the same time. 
Some of them came into my life at different 
periods, — and went out of it. But, if I had 
been associated with all of them at any one time, 
I might have loved them all at once in the same 
way, — though not, as I said before, to the same 
degree. 

Helen — Oh, Alice, you are guying me ! 

Alice — No, Helen, not in the least. Listen 
to me, dear. Your mother married twice, — did 
she not love both of those men in the same way? 

Helen — Why, of course ! — but not at the 
same time. She couldn't have mavricd them 
both at the same time. 

Alice — No ! She could not have been legally 
bound to them both at the same time because the 
social order does not permit this, — and hence 
you and she think that she could not have loved 
them both at the same time ; but, if our laws and 
standards were different, I hold that she coidd 
have done so. In a word, that the seeming un- 
reasonableness of such a thing comes from edu- 
cation, and not from nature. 

Helen — O Alice ! I cannot understand you 
at all. Would you be willing that Charles should 
love half a dozen women? 



i8 BOUND 

Alice {laughiiig) — My being willing or not 
would have nothing to do with it, — that is, with 
Charles's ability to love half a dozen women, — 
but I should think it possible and I should cer- 
tainly be quite willing. 

Helen — That is perhaps not what I mean, 
then. If you were united to your soul-mate, as 
you say — would you be willing that he should 
love half a dozen women ? 

Alice {confidently) — Oh, yes! 

Helen — Well, you simply daze me ! But 
you always were so strong and self-sufficient, — 
so clever and original, — so equal to any situa- 
tion. But I — I am so different. 

Alice {earnestly) — Helen! How would you 
feel toward a woman whom Edward loved better 
than he does you? 

Helen {with agitation) — O Alice ! I — I — 
can not tell ! Why — why do you ask me ? 

Alice {very tenderly) — Would you hate her, 
Helen? 

Helen — ^ Hate her ? — hate her ? Let me 
think — let me think ! No, I do not think I would 
hate her. I — I do not think I could hate any- 
one. 

Alice — Could you love her, Helen — other 
things being equal? 

Helen — I — I — have never thought of such 



IBOUND to 

things before, Alice. Why do you ask me such 
questions ? 

Alice — Would you not zvish to love any one 
whom Edward loved, Helen? 

Helen — Oh, yes ! I should — but how could 
I — how could I — if he loved her better than 
me? It's against human nature, Alice. 

Alice — But would you not think that a better 
and higher human nature that could do this? 
Would you not think it a desideratum to be able 
to do it? 

Helen — Why, Alice, you speak as if you 
were pleading some one's cause. Do you knozv 
any one whom Edward loves — better — than — 
he — does — me? (With nnde, distressed eyes.) 

Alice — No ! I am not pleading any one's 
cause, Helen. But do you know any one wdiom 
Charles loves better than he does me? 

Helen {flushing crimson and in great agita- 
tion) — Why, Alice! How can you ask me such 
a question ? 

Alice (smiling) — Did you not ask me just 
such a question? But I see that you da know 
of such a one, and I will not press you farther. 
But if she be one whom I love, or could love, I 
should not love her less for knowledge of this 
fact. 



26 BOUND 

Helen — But that is because Charles is not 
your soul-mate, as you say — I suppose. 

Alice (zmth an expression of confident assur- 
ance) — If he be he cannot love any one else 
better than me, and, if he be not, then I wish him, 
as I said before, to love best his own soul-mate, — 
so I could love her in any case, — do you not see, 
Helen? 

Helen — It may be, Alice, that you could. 
You have always been different from other 
people in many ways, — but — I — oh, I could 
not — I could not. 

(Charles Burton enters suddenly, — his face 
dark and forbidding. Seeing Helen Westbrook 
he makes an effort to lighten his expression a 
little.) 

Charles — What, gossiping yet ? And you 
look as serious as if you were discussing the 
affairs of the nation. 

(Hobbs appears at door zvith grip, light over- 
coat, and umbrella.) 

{To Hobbs) — Put those things into the auto, 
Hobbs. 

{To Alice) — I must get off on the noon train. 
Can't tell exactly when I will be back. Not for 
two or three days at any rate. I will write. 
Good-bye. {Kisses her on the cheek. Shakes 



BOUND 21 

hands zvith Mrs. Wcsthrook.) Good-bye, Helen! 
{Mrs. Westhrook rises.) 

Helen {to Charles) — May I have a seat in 
the anto with you? You can let me down at 
our house on the way to the station. 

Charles — Certainly ! With pleasure ! 

{Alice accompanies them to the door.) 



CURTAIN 



ACT SECOND 
Scene — The Same. 

{Curtain rises upon Mrs. Burton, seated and 
absorbed in thought. — A knock.) 

HoBBS (at door — announces) — Mr. West- 
brook to see you, ma'am, on important business. 

Alice — Show him up, Hobbs, — and if any- 
one calls I am not at home. 

Hobbs — Yes, ma'am. 

Alice — And, Hobbs, — when Miss Ethel re- 
turns from school, ask her to go straight to her 
room, and wait me there. I will join her as soon 
as I am disengaged. 

Hobbs — Yes, ma'am. (Goes out.) 

Edward Westbrook {entering) — Alice! My 
love! 

Alice {putting herself into his arms) — Ed- 
ward, what is it? {With a concerned look.) 

Edward — Beloved, I fear there are breakers 
ahead for us. 

Alice — What do you mean, dear? 

Edward — I have reason to believe that 
Charles has discovered our love for each other, — 
that he thinks the worst, and that his spirit is 
bitter and relentless. 

Alice — He has been moody and irritable 
lately. I feared as much. What evidence have 
you that he suspects us? 



BOUND 53 

Edward — I have every reason to believe that 
he has gotten hold of my letters to you. 

Alice — Oh, surely not, Edward ! Charles 
would not stoop to take my letters. 

Edward — Where do you keep them ? 

Alice — Locked in the little cabinet of my 
desk there. They are but few. You have not 
needed to write often. 

Edward — Look if they are still there, Alice, 

Alice {taking a tiny key from her zvatch chain 
and examining cabinet, turns a ivhite face to 
Edzvard) — They are gone ! 

Edward — I should not be ashamed to have 
all the world see them, if it comes to that. 

Alice — No, Edward, they are as noble and 
beautiful as our love has always been. 

Edward — But Charles is incapable of finding 
them so, — incapable of believing that we have 
never broken the letter of our vows, in all these 
years. 

Alice — I fear you are right, Edward. It 
would be in vain to try to convince him that we 
have done no wrong but love each other — and 
we could not help that. 

Edward — We have done one wrong, dear 
Alice. At least we have made one mistake. We 
should have openly acknowledged our love as 



H BOUND 

soon as we knew it to be inevitable, — and have 
faced the consequences. 

Alice — But, O Edward ! The consequences, 

— Helen's sorrow ! — My little Ethel ! 
Edward — Yes, darling. I have hoped against 

hope that a way would open by means of which 
these two so dear to us might have been spared 

— I had hoped to win Helen's mind through her 
loving heart to the reasonableness of my loving 
you supremely — but I have had no hope with 
regard to Charles — and I wanted to spare him, 
too, — all I could — nevertheless I should have 
faced the truth and acted upon it. 

Alice — And this you would have done with 
true manly courage if I had not constantly be- 
sought you to wait a little longer. 

Edward — Do not reproach yourself, my love. 
You have acted for the best. You love Charles 
still ? 

Alice — Yes, Edward, — even though I love 
you supremely, — you understand this, — even 
though I know that he loves another woman 
better than he does me. 

Edward (in surprise) — You know this? 

Alice — The fact. I do not know who she 
is. Do you? 

Edward — Yes ! All the world has known 
but you, dear. She is Mrs. Hudson. 



BOUND 25 

Alice — Something occurred this morning to 
make me think it might be she. 

Edward — She came to Charles to engage 
him to secure her a divorce from her husband. 
They — she and Charles — fell instantly in love 
with each other. I never saw love more in- 
tense, more irresistible, — and so utterly unre- 
sisted. 

Alice — And would Charles resent my loving 
you, — when this is the case with him ? 

Edward — Yes, my love. Charles is con- 
trolled by all the unreasoning standards of con- 
vention. And, in spite of his own life, he 
would visit upon us all the bitterness of the 
vengeance of a dishonored husband. 

Alice — Then what are we to do, dear ? 

Edward — We can not kill our love ! 

Alice — No, Edward. We cannot kill our 
love. 

Edward — We are one from the beginning of 
all things, — from the primordial atoms. 

Alice — Yes, Edward. 

Edward — And what God hath thus joined 
together nothing can put asunder. 

Alice — Nothing, Edward. Think of the pre- 
sumption of fancying that man can join by 
church or law as God joins. 



26 BOUND 

Edward — You have never felt that you were 
thus joined to Charles? 

Alice — Never ! I have always told him so. 
I have said to him from the first, " I love you 
well enough to live with you, — but I do not 
bind myself to you forever, I do not feel that you 
are my soul-mate." But he has always laughed 
at me for what he calls my nonsense in this re- 
gard — as not knowing my own heart, etc. But 
he has always been proud of me as his wife, and 
has never seemed to feel any lack in me until 
lately, — has always been kind and tender until 
now. 

Edward — And you would have wished that 
things might go on always just as they have 
been but for this change in him? 

Alice — No, Edward. I have felt for some 
time that I could not much longer endure this 
bondage that keeps me from being free to love 
you to the full, — free to have you love me as you 
will. 

Edward — But if Charles should give you 
this freedom, and be willing that you should 
continue to live with him just as you have done, 
would you be content? 

Alice — I think so, Edward — but I do not 
quite know. Would you be content under such 
conditions ? 



BOUND 27 

Edward — Content ? — perhaps ! — because I 
could thus reahze my supreme love for you and 
keep dear Helen's heart in peace. But we can 
no longer think of this. We must take decisive 
steps now. 

Alice — What must these steps be? 

Edward — We must go away together. To 
Canada perhaps — and live there — until Charles 
shall throw you over for desertion. 

Alice — And leave Ethel? 

Edward — And Helen. Yes, dear. We should 
be obliged in any case to do this. 

Alice — O my little Ethel! What will you 
do without your mother? And yet if she is to 
lead a conventional life — perhaps it is best that 
I should leave her, — for I should bring her up 
more than ever now to hate these bonds that 
bind her mother. But forgive me, dear, I for- 
get that Helen is your little Ethel. 

Edward — Yes, Alice, — Helen is my little 
Ethel, and will be even more helpless through 
my defection than Ethel through yours, — be- 
cause the mould of Helen's life is cast, — while 
Ethel's is still plastic. 

Alice — But, Edward, are your circumstances 
such that you can go away thus, and still leave 
Helen provided for? My fortune, you know, is 
entailed to Ethel, — though I have a large in- 



28 BOUND 

come while I live, if Charles would be willing to 
give it to me. 

Edward — Yes, love. I have had all in readi- 
ness for many a day for this exigency — which I 
knew must arrive. We can do without your 
income. And now, my soul-mate, — can you 
bring yourself to go with me — at once — before 
Charles returns? 

Alice — O Edward ! — Edward — I must 
have time to think — to prepare my mind — to 
arrange for Ethel. O God ! — why do we 
human beings make life so hard for one another? 

Edward — We must decide today, my love. 
Charles may return tomorrow. If all be as I 
fear, — I would not have you face him. 

Alice — I should not fear to face him, — and 
I know that you would not, — only to do so 
would be of no avail. We must go in any event, 
and we might as well spare ourselves and him 
the encounter. 

Edward — Then I shall make all preparations 
for our departure. When? 

Alice — Come to me this evening after Ethel 
is in bed. I shall then be able to give you my 
definite answer, — I shall then be able to tell you 
when — when I can depart. O Edward ! — 
Edward! (Jhrozuing herself npoii his bosom). 

Edward {soothing her zvith tender caresses') 



BOUND 29 

— Yes, love. Or perhaps this would be better : 
I shall wait you in the den. Come to me when 
you have bidden Ethel good-night — 

Alice (sobbing) — For the last time — 

Edward — And we will make our plans. But 
let us question each other's heart solemnly. You 
are as confident as I am that we are soul-mates? 

Alice — Yes, Edward. I know this of in- 
ward knowledge. 

Edward — You feel confident that our alle- 
giance to each other is in obedience to a higher 
law than that which binds us to other relations? 

Alice — Yes, Edward. This law is my re- 
ligion. 

Edward — You have no sense of doing Charles 
a wrong? 

x\lice — No. Charles does not own me. No 
social standards, no law can justify such bondage 
as that ; I am a free soul, and to live my freedom 
is my right and part in life. 

Edward — And Ethel ? 

Alice — It is harder to see clear as to her. 
I love my child, — but — but — I must not hold 
myself in bondage for this reason. My Ethel 
will miss me — will be sad, — but she will not 
need me, — and when she comes to the knowl- 
edge of the truth that makes free, — she will 
rejoice that her mother had found it before her. 



30 BOUND 

Edward — Oh, Alice, as deep answereth unto 
deep, so answers your soul to my soul (they em- 
brace ill silence). And now I must leave you for 
a while ; I will return to the den and await you 
there (goes out). 



CURTAIN 



ACT THIRD 

Scene — Charles Burton's "Den," a large 
decagonal room sl.vfy feet in perimeter and tzaelve 
feet high. Only five of the sides appear in the 
scene. There are no ivindoivs, the ceiling being 
a sky-light surrounded by ventilators. Tzvo of 
the alternate sides run out into small alcoves, of 
zvJiich one is a bathroom the other a gentleman's 
dressing-room, the appointments of zvhicli shozu 
through the half-drazvn curtains. The three other 
sides present the flat surface of the zvall, and are 
fitted zvith bookshelves filled zvith books, coni- 
inencing six feet above the door. The lozver half 
of the side zuhich occupies center rear of stage is 
filled in zvith a zvidc stone fireplace, zvith mantel- 
shelf littered zvith smoking appointments. That 
of the side zvhich occupies left front of stage has 
a shallozu cabinet containing curios against the 
zvall under the bookshelves. That zvhich occu- 
pies right front of stage has the entrance door 
filling the lozvcr six feet of space. There is a 
trolley-ladder, arranged to run round the room to 
give easy access to the books. The floor is of hard 
zvood tvaxed, zvith handsome rugs scattered 
about. A gentleman's business desk and chair 
stand out on left front. A library table occupies 
the center. To the right of the fireplace is a 
huge, richly-appointed divan. Here and there 



32 BOUND 

stands a sleepy-hoUozv chair. It is evening. The 
room is lighted by electricity. 

{Curtain rises upon Charles Burton seated in 
desk-chair, his elbows on desk, his head upon his 
hands, and his face hidden from view. Ediuard 
Wcstbrook lets himself in at the door by a latch- 
key. He starts painfully on seeing Charles. 
Charles hearing some one enter turns about, and 
the two face each other. Charles' countenance is 
livid and sardonic in expression. Edward's is 
pale but calm.) 

Edward (speaking gently and in surprise) — 
You have returned so soon ? 

Charles — I did not go away. 

Edward — Why did you pretend to go? 

Charles — That I might have an opportunity 
to watch the progress of your hason with my 
wife. 

Edward — Liason is an unjust word, Charles. 
AHce and I have never broken the letter of our 
marriage vows. 

Charles (furiously) — Do you expect me to 
beHeve any such damned stuff as that ? 

Edward — No. I do not expect you to be- 
heve it, — but that does not make it any less true. 
Alice and I love each other supremely, but this 
does not prevent her still loving you, or my still 
loving Helen, 



BOUND 33 

Charles (with a bitter sneer) — Don't give 
me any more of that devilish cant ! 

Edward — Charles, listen to me ! Alice and 
I have done wrong only in failing to avow — 

Charles (snatehing a revolver from its case 
on the desk and aiming it at Edzvard's heart) — 
This is the way I will listen to you, — damn you ! 
Now answer my questions ! 

{Ed-mmrd springs deftly fonvard against 
Charles' right side, presses his pistol arm up- 
ward, wrests the revolver from his hands, then 
retires two or three paees and aims the revolver 
at his heart.) 

Edward {very qnictly) — Now it is you who 
will answer my questions. If you move I will 
shoot you dead. 

Chares {zvho is no cozvard, faces the revolver 
calmly and says) — Shoot ! 

Edward — I wish rather to make terms with 
you. 

Charles — State your terms. 

Edward — I tried to say to you that Alice and 
I have done no wrong but that of failing to avow 
our love when we knew it to be inevitable. We 
have decided to let this wrong cease. We have 
decided to go away together, — unless — unless 
you are willing that we shall be free to love each 
other to the full, — as we will — 



34 BOUND 

Charles (in a voice of thunder) — What? 

Edward — Wait ! Alice loves me supremely, 
— but she still loves you as well as ever — well 
enough to continue to live with you — if you will 
give her perfect freedom to love me. I love Alice 
supremely — but I am convinced that Helen 
would continue to live with me if I told her the 
truth. 

Charles — And you expect me to be party to 
such a filthy mess as that? 

Edward — Why would this be any more a filthy 
mess than your present relations with Mrs. Hud- 
son involve? 

Charles — You damned sneaking hound, — 
how dare you — 

Edward — It does not avail to call names. 
Will you accede to my proposition? 

Charles — I ? — Consent to be a damned 
cuckold like that? — I'll kill you all first. 

Edward — Is this your final answer ? 

Charles {more quietly) — My final answer. 

Edward — Then I have another proposition 
to make : Will you grant Alice a divorce with- 
out scandal? 

Charles (beside himself with rage, seirjing 
the desk-chair, throzving it above his head 
and starting furiously tozvard Edward) — No! 
Damn you ! 



BOUND 35 

Edward — Then you must die, Charles ! 
{SJioots him through the heart.) 

(Charles staggers, the chair flying out of his 
hand and crashing to tJic floor as he falls hack- 
zvard — dead. ) 

(Edzi'ard quietly lays dozvn the revolver and 
kneels by Charles' side. He examines the body 
carefully, seeming unable to reali.ze that life has 
really departed. There is a knock at the door, 
zvhich Edivard in his excitement fails to hear.) 

Edward (opening Charles' clothing) — How 
Httle he bleeds ! The hemorrhage must be in- 
ward. Poor Charles! (Lifting the body to the 
divan and laying if tenderly dozvn.) Yes, — he 
is quite, quite dead. Poor Charles! (Looking 
dozvn in a sad, da.ced zvay upon the dead man's 
face. ) 

(There is a second and louder knock at the 
door.) 

Edward (suddenly remembering, zvhispcrs) 

— Alice! (He goes to the door, opens it and 
drazi's Alice in by the hand. Her face is blanched 
and she is treinbling horribly.) 

Alice — Edward — Edward — what is it ? 

— You are alive ! — I came as soon as I could. 

— I heard the pistol shot, as I came — I feared 
that you, — that you — (she gasps conz'ulsivcly). 

Edward (zvho has stood so as to screen the 



36 BOUND 

dic'an from Alice, nozu moves aside, and, putting 
Jiis anil tenderly around her, says) — Be calm, 
my love, — be calm and strong. Charles — lies 
there, dead. 

Alice — Charles ! O God ! — Then he did 
not go away. Dead ! — And by his own hand ! 

Edward — No, dearest. He is dead by my 
hand. 

Alice — O Edward ! — Yon killed him — in 
self-defense ! 

Edward — No, Alice. I cannot truthfully say 
in self-defense, though he tried to kill me first, 
and I was unarmed. I did not need to kill him 
in self-defense, — I wrested the pistol from his 
hand and shot him — deliberately. 

Alice — O my God ! my God ! — Then they 
will hang you, Edward ! Why do you stay here ? 
You must go away quickly — to Canada. 

Edward — My poor love ! I must go — 
farther than Canada. 

Alice — Then go ! — go ! — to the ends of the 
earth, — go quickly. Do not waste a moment ! 
I will follow you — some day. 

Edward — No, my Alice ! Listen to me, my 
love ! We must say farewell for this existence — 
for — I must go out of it. Look me in the face, 
my more than life (putting his arms about her). 
You believe that we are one ? — That we have 



BOUND zi 

been one from the beginning of all things ? — 
That what God has joined together nothing can 
put asunder? {Alice has moved her head in 
solemn assent to each of these questions.) Well, 
now my beloved, we must part for a little while, 

— but soon we shall meet again on a higher 
plane of being where no false ideals or stand- 
ards of others can come between us, — where 
love shall be free — free forevermore ! 

Alice (in an awed voice) — Yes, Edward, but 
nozvF — But what will you do nozv? 

Edward — I will write one line, sign it, and 
leave it in your hand — stating that it is I who 
killed Charles, — that you may not be accused. 
Then I will bid you farewell, my Alice — my 
love — and go home to Helen. Tomorrow, we 

— Helen and I — will go out in the auto for our 
morning spin, — very early. We will go by the 
high bluff road. At the summit the machine will 
become unmanageable, — and — we will go to 
certain death. 

Alice — O Edward ! — Take me ! — take me ! 
How can I live when you — are all gone ? 

Edward — No, my Alice. You are strong to 
live. It may be that you will be able to do some- 
thing to help free the world — as to love — as I 
had hoped to do. But Helen — would be 
crushed. She would choose to die with me. 



38 BOUND 

But I will not let her know that she is going to 
her death. It will be better so. As for me, — 
you know, my darling, what / think of death — 
as only the gateway for all of us to higher, freer 
life. 

(As he says fJicsc things Alice seems turned to 
stone. She zvafcJics him tlius as he zvrites a line. 
Then, as he approaches her, her face lightens 
with a zirondcrful look of adoring love.) 

Edward {folding her in his arms in unspeak- 
able tenderness) — Alice, my goddess, — my 
other part, — my soul-mate, — we are one for- 
ever. — You will remember ? I shall be nearer 
to you in the spirit than I have ever been in the 
body. (Kissing her slowly and repeatedly. 
Then, zvhile her eyes follow him in rapt gaze, he 
goes out.) 

Alice (continuing to garjc after him for some 
seconds, — then, suddenly remembering her an- 
guish., throimng her clasped hands zmth a tor- 
tuous motion of the arms above her head and 
crying) — And / must Vvi'e? — How long, O 
Lord! — how long? (Falls heavily forziwd 
npoii the floor.) 

CURTAIN 



FREE 



CHARACTERS 

ERSKINE BARTLETT— Scion of a Mayilozuer 
New England family ; born in California ; 
professor of psychology, holding chair in 

University of S , university extension 

lecturer. 

ELGAR STRAUSS — Famous tenor in Herz 
Grand Opera Co. ; American born, but of 
German ancestry. 

EROICA ARDENZA — Famous soprano in 
Herz Grand Opera Co. ; American born, 
but of noble Italian blood. 

AGATHA BARTLETT — Wife of Professor 
Bartlett. 

SARAH CARTER — Widow of reduced for- 
tunes ; member of aristocratic southern 
family ; of cosmopolitan social experience ; 
intimate friend, life companion, woman 
of business to Eroica Ardenza. 

MAID TO EROICA ARDENZA — 

The action in the first, second, and third acts 
takes place in the apartments of Eroica Ardenza, 
in the fourth act in Prof. Bartlett's flat. 



ACT FIRST 

Scene — Handsomely furnished drazving- 
rooni in the suite of Eroica Ardenza in the 
" Roscoe." 

(It is midnight. Curtain rises upon Sarah 
Carter, in luxurious dressing goivn, lying upon 
a divan, having just ivakcned from a comfortable 
nap. She sits up, presses her hands over her 
eyes, and smoothes her exquisitely dressed zvhite 
hair. A clock zvith a musical chime strikes 
tzvelvc. ) 

Sarah (rising) — Eroica should be here. 
Ah, there she comes ! (Moving to entrance door, 
zvhich is being opened by a latch-key.) Well! 
Here you are ! (As Eroica enters, follozved by 
her maid.) 

(Eroica, mature, superbly handsome, gloziing 
zi'ith triumph, flings her arms about Sarah's neck, 
kisses her on both checks, then, fhrozcing back 
her ozvn head, laughs aloud in an abandon of 
delight.) 

Sarah (unclasping Eroica' s rich evening cloak 
and handing it to the maid zi'ith a sign to zvith- 
dravv) — No need to ask if all went well, my 
song bird? (The maid goes out.) 

Eroica — No, Sarah dear. It was glorious ! 
I felt inspired ; I did not think of how I was sing- 
ing, — of how I was doing anything, — I just 



44 FREE 

did it. And I seemed to inspire Elgar, too. He 
was perfect. And the house was wild. — And 
the " Liebestodt " ! I wonder if anybody ever 
sang it before with such sensations. I felt as if 
I were floating through space with the other 
half of my soul, — and something within me 
kept saying, " There is no death, — nothing but 
life, — life, — and ever more and more life ! " 
(She seats herself and ga::es rapturously into 
space. ) 

Sarah (gently, after a pause) — Are you 
tired, dear? 

Eroica (brightly) — Oh, no, no, Sarah dear, 
I feel as if I had a new lease of life rather. Are 
you sleepy, you good Sarah? I have so much 
to say to you, — and as for me, — I feel as if I 
should never be sleepy again. 

Sarah — Oh, no, Eroica, I have just had a 
fine nap. Talk yourself out, my love ; I am all 
ears and all heart at the same time, as you well 
know. 

Eroica — Well, you dear good Sarah, your 
Eroica made some daring innovations as to the 
stage traditions in the interpretation of Isolde. 
Now you know why I did not want you to be 
present at the first essay of my ideas. I did not 
wish you to see me fail — if the innovations did 



FREE 45 

not take. But they took {gleefully), and now 
you shall hear me for yourself next time. 

Sarah — I am not surprised that they took, 
Eroica. You are not only a gifted artist, but a 
woman of splendid intellect. Your interpretation 
must have had a high intellectual as well as ar- 
tistic quality. 

Eroica — Oh, you dear Sarah ! Your goose 
would always be a swan in your eyes, no matter 
what she did. 

Sarah — Go on^ and tell me about these in- 
novations. 

Eroica — First, then, Sarah, I zvas Isolde, — 
for the time being. You know I am made so. 
And with my freedom of speech as to social tra- 
ditions and standards I was able to be, as that 
gloriously primitive woman herself must have 
been, utterly without any maudlin sense of guilt 
or wrong or injustice to any one in loving 
Tristan and in giving myself to him. Then I 
was natural in the dramatic action, that is, simple, 
not stagey, stamping, strutting, ranting, accord- 
ing to the traditions, — and finally, instead of 
being ashamed and crushed and hiding my head 
when we were confronted with King Mark and 
Tristan's denouncers, I stood up and faced them 
all with gentle pride, wishing only that Wagner 
had given me something to sing in which to pour 



46 FREE 

out my feeling that I was doing right, the hoHest 
right of the universe, — and not wrong, not 
wrong. 

(Eroica accompanies this recital ivith most ex- 
quisite and charmingly appropriate movement 
and gesture.) 

Sarah — And do you think that your audi- 
ence appreciated this, — interpreted it as you 
meant it? 

Eroica — In a measure, yes, — but not, of 
course as they would have done if Wagner had 
given me a chance to sing such expressions. 
But to no man, not even to Wagner, would it 
occur to do this. Some great woman composer 
of the future will do such things. 

Sarah — Mayhap yourself ! 

Eroica — No ! This is not my genius. It is 
my genius to revolutionize interpretation. And 
I shall do it, — you will see. I prevailed upon 
dear old Von Hiisen, the conductor, you know, 
to play for me, at least, according to my idea. 
I convinced him that Wagner, in putting the 
orchestra under the stage instead of between 
singer and audience, had given the greatest mark 
of his genius in opera, and that when the or- 
chestra is not so placed, the orchestral accom- 
painment of the voice should be subdued suffi- 



FREE 47 

ciently to give this effect, and to allow the human 
tones to dominate the waves of sound. 

Sakaii — O Eroica ! Your idea is as great as 
Wagner's. 

Eroica — Perhaps ! I am convinced, at least, 
that the applause I secured was in great part 
due to this effect, whether the audience realized 
it or not. 

Sarah — And Von Hiisen did that for you — 
to your satisfaction ? 

Eroica — Yes. Wasn't it wonderful that he 
was willing? 

Sarah — Doubtless ! But I question if there 
has ever walked the earth a being capable of such 
empire over men as a great singer, who is at the 
same time a tactful, charming, beautiful woman. 

Eroica (zvith exquisitely play fid mockery) — 
Ah ! Sarah ! There speak your southern social 
traditions as to women. Such empire as you 
allude to may exist, but it is temporary only — 
the world is fickle. 

Sarah — Of course — of course, — in that as 
in everything else, — but you will grant that such 
empire is supreme — while it lasts. 

Eroica {after a short silence) — Well! So 
much for my art, — and now {zvith great szveet- 
ness of expression) for my heart. Erskine was 
in the audience tonight. 



48 FREE 

Sarah — Professor Bartlett ? Does he live 
here ? 

Eroica — No ! He belongs to the University 
Extension corps, and makes this his headquarters 
for the lecture season. 

Sarah — Has the time come for you to tell me 
about this Professor Bartlett, Eroica? You 
know he is scarcely more than a name to me. 

Eroica — I think it has, Sarah, — I think the 
time has come. Let me see ! What do you 
know? 

Sarah — Only that you were in college to- 
gether. What made you go to college, Eroica? 

Eroica — I had brains. And then I wanted 
to prove to father that nothing could stand in 
the way of my becoming a great singer. 

Sarah — Nothing, Eroica ! It was ordained. 
Not even the prospective inheritance of great 
wealth could hinder you. That was the greatest 
test of all, I think. 

Eroica — No, Sarah ! The greatest test of 
all was having to stand out against the conven- 
tional ideal of love. 

Sarah — Ah ! 

Eroica — Yes, Sarah ! And thus it was : I 
had finished three of my four years when 
Erskine came to the chair of psychology. We 
loved at once. So rapturously, so perfectly, that 



FREE 49 

I knew beyond question that this was the love of 
my life, although (with a playful smile) I had 
loved much and many before, and knew that I 
should love much and many again. 

Sarah — Well ! 

Eroica — Erskine wanted me to marry him. 

Sarah — And you refused ? 

Eroica — I told him that I had no need to 
marry him. 

Sarah — (catching her breath) — And he — ? 

Eroica — Was conventional — and was 
shocked and crushed. 

Sarah — Naturally ! — and you ? 

Eroica — I told him that I would never be 
zi'ife to any man — that I was destined to be a 
great artist, — that in taking up the vocation of 
wife I should be doing worse than he would if 
he should turn his back on his profession and 
become house-steward to some woman, — that I 
was responsible to the universe for my artistic 
faculty, and that I would let nothing stand in 
the way of my developing it. 

Sarah — Wonderful ! And then ? 

Eroica — And then he assured me that he 
would never ask me to be a wife in that sense — 
that he would not think of standing in the way of 
my art — 

Sarah — Yes ! They all say that — 



50 FREE 

Eroica — But I showed him that it was not 
what he would do or not do that was in ques- 
tion — that the gist of the matter was that / as 
a wife could not be free in myself to do the things 
that I wished to do. 

Sarah — And could he see this as you did ? 

Eroica — Not exactly, perhaps, — not at first, 
at least. But I was able to realize for him what 
he could not realize for himself, — although he 
was older than I. Women — are made like that, 
I think (iimsingly). 

Sarah — Yes ! — 

Eroica — It was hard, Sarah ! — He was 
glorious ! The most naturally, freely, exuberantly 
virile man I ever saw, — and with an intellect 
that dominated everything in him but the strain 
of puritanic inheritance that possessed him at 
that time. 

Sarah — Ah, these strains of inheritance ! 

Eroica — He was young then — he did not 
realize that he would rise above that strain — ■ 
grow out of it. It would not dominate him now. 
But I — I had no puritanic strain of inheritance 
(lifting her head with o rapturous expression). 
I have in me the blood of the nobles of Rome, — 
I have been free since the primordial beginnings. 

Sarah — I see, — but Erskine — Professor 
Bartlett? 



FREE ^ 

Eroica — Erskine loved, or thought he loved, 
domestic sweetness, — he wanted a zvife, — he 
longed for a child. 

Sarah — And you did not sympathize with 
this ? 

Eroica — I assured him that though I loved 
him supremely, and would always do so, that I 
should never give my life to these things — wife- 
hood — motherhood. 

Sarah — And you parted ? 

Eroica — Not until the end of the year, when, 
just before my departure for Europe, he married 
my chum — my dearest friend — the sweetest 
woman soul I ever knew — a woman with the 
genius of motherhood as strong as my genius 
for song. 

Sarah — O Eroica ! And this did not break 
your heart? 

Eroica — On the contrary it gave me joy. I 
knew that he was capable of loving her as she 
wished to be loved and of loving me supremely 
at the same time. And I knew that he was 
getting W'hat he thought he wanted as the greatest 
perfection that earth could give. 

Sarah — And you have not met since? 

Eroica — No, but we have had regular and 
sweet communication. They have a child — a 



52 FREE 

little girl of twelve. She is called Eroica — 
and — and — she is blind.' 

Sarah — Totally blind ? — hopelessly blind ? 

Eroica — Totally — hopelessly blind. 

Sarah — Oh, what a tragedy ! 

Eroica — Perhaps! (Musing zvith a szvcct 
and tender expression.) 

Sarah — And have you, in your experience of 
loving many and much (laughing in spite of her- 
self), still held to your supreme love for this 
man? 

Eroica — Yes. 

Sarah — And he ? 

Eroica — When I saw him tonight heaven 
entered my soul, for I knew that he had held to 
that same supreme love for me. 

Sarah — And how is it about Elgar? 

Eroica — I love Elgar — deeply — truly — 
tenderly — passionately. 

Sarah — And you love Erskine in the same 
way? 

Eroica — In the same way, — only more in- 
tensely — more supremely. 

Sarah — Are you not to Elgar all that a wife 
coidd be except in name, — except in living with 
him? 

Eroica — I am not a zvife to any man — and 
I will never be (with lifted head). 



FREE 53 

Sarah — What is this feeling you have about 
wifehood, Eroica ? Explain it to me ! 

Eroica — A wife is a woman who consecrates 
herself for life — sexually to one man. I will 
never consecrate myself for life to any person for 
anything. This is slavery. / must be free. I 
may be seemingly enslaved by circumstances 
over which I have no control — but this is not 
really slavery. I will never put myself deliber- 
ately into any kind of bondage. This is the only 
true slavery — that into which one puts oneself. 

Sarah — I see ! You would not take an oath 
to love always, for fear you might change in that 
regard. 

Eroica — Oh, no! It is not that. I could 
take such oath and be sure never to break it, — 
but I would gk'e to no man, or law, power to 
compel me to do anyfJiiiig. 

Sarah — But, Eroica, every time you enter 
into a business contract you give some man, some 
law, power to compel you to do what you con- 
tract to do. 

Eroica — Ah, but I do not make life contracts, 
I can dissolve such relations at any moment ; nor 
do I consecrate myself to one person in such re- 
lation ; I am free to enter into similar relations 
with any number of others. If I could marry 



54 FREE 

under such conditions, — I should not object to 
marriage perhaps. 

Sarah — But, Eroica, such conditions in 
marriage are out of all question at present. 

Eroica — Yes, except where both man and 
woman feel as I do. But I am in advance of 
present development, and I must be free. 

Sarah — But is not this freedom at the ex- 
pense of certain joys that marriage might bring? 
Is not the deprivation of these joys but another 
form of slavery into which you put yourself? 

Eroica — Oh, no, Sarah ! I deprive myself of 
nothing. I love, — I am loved, — I am free to 
love, — I am free to be loved. This is the per- 
fect freedom, the freedom of the within. There 
can be no slavery for one who is in this freedom. 

Sarah — But, Eroica, how is it with you 
about children ? You love children, — you help 
them everywhere — have you never wished for 
a child yourself? 

Eroica — Oh, yes. I have wished for a child. 
But if I should be an illegitimate mother (smil- 
ing), I should put my child into bondage with 
the present social order, and I would no more do 
that than put myself into bondage. 

Sarah — Yes ! It is Scylla or Charybdis. I 
see — 



FREE 55 

Eroica — But those whom I help — they are 
as much my children as if I had borne them. 

Sarah — But, Eroica, — they have not your 
personal love and care, such as your own children 
would have. 

Eroica — If I had ever borne a child, — that 
child should not have had my personal care. This 
care would have been delegated to hands much 
better fitted than mine, by individual capacity 
and trained skill, for such work. 

Sarah — But what would your child be with- 
out mother-love? 

Eroica — Oh, this trite, pitiful ideal of mother- 
love that holds the world ! Are personal minis- 
trations from untrained and unskilled hands the 
highest manifestations of mother-love? This 
idea is a relic of primitive times. That mother 
loves her child best who gives to that child the 
most perfect environment evolution affords. 
Children should be cared for by those who have 
the same passion for that sort of thing {suddenly 
hccoining szvccfly gentle) that I have for music. 
This passion is the true mother-love, and not that 
animal instinct that we hug from prehistoric times. 
See, Sarah? (With a gracious smile.) But 
come! let us woo Morpheus {suppressing a 
yazmi). We shall not need to court him long I 
fancy. {They go out together.) 
CURTAIN 



ACT SECOND 

Scene — The same 

{Curtain rises upon Eroica, in exquisite 
negligee. There is a knock at the door. The 
maid enters and announces Mr. Elgar Strauss. 
— Elgar enters. He is a splendid specimen of 
Norse virility — lithe, young, beautiful.) 

Elgar — Eroica ! My goddess ! 

Eroica {beaming siveetly upon him) — Elgar, 
you were a Tristan to my Isolde last night. 

Elgar {taking both of her hands and lifting 
them to his lips) — I could have no higher praise. 
But it was you who inspired me. 

Eroica — Elgar, it was dear of you to adapt 
yourself so beautifully to my innovations. I 
could never have succeeded if you had not done 
that. 

Elgar {radiant) — Eroica, you lift me to the 
seventh heaven. 

Eroica — But did you do it, Elgar, because 
you wished to please me, or because you yourself 
sympathized with the interpretation? 

Elgar — I — I — scarcely know. There was 
a mixture of both, perhaps. 

Eroica — But you know as Isolde I felt that 
I was doing right and not wrong, to give myself 



iFREE 5; 

to Tristan. And as Eroica, I should feel the 
same way, in a similar case {insinuatingly). 

Elgar — I, too, should feel that yon were 
doing right — in a similar case. 

Eroica — You mean in a case where I was 
married by compulsion to a man I did not love — 
when I loved another? 

Elgar — Yes. 

Eroica — But suppose I were married to a 
young and beautiful man — like you, Elgar — 
whom I loved, and I should come to love another 
man more, — what would you think then, Elgar ? 

Elgar {choosing his zvords ivith care) — I — 
I — should not think it possible for you to love 
another man more while you loved one, in the 
true sense, my Eroica. 

Eroica — What do you mean by the true 
sense, Elgar? 

Elgar {boldly and passionately) — The sense 
in which a ivonian loves a man, — with the sex- 
love. ' 

Eroica — Then you think it is impossible for 
a zvoman to love more than one man at a time 
with the sex-love? 

Elgar — I — I — think so. I have always 
thought so {excitedly) . 

Eroica — That is, Elgar, you have always 
accepted the traditional idea on the subject, and 



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never have done any thinking on your own ac- 
count thereupon. 

Elgar {smiling faintly) — You corner me, 
Eroica. 

Eroica — Elgar, look me in the face and tell 
me the honest truth. Have you never loved more 
than one woman at once, with the sex-love ? 

Elgar {discomfited and confused) — I — I 
have not loved another woman to the same de- 
gree, while I have passionately loved one. 

Eroica — That is not what I asked you, El- 
gar. Think ! Answer me truly. 

Elgar {Hushing, hesitating, — then simply and 
frankly) — Why — yes, Eroica, — I seem forced 
to realize that I have. 

Eroica — Then why should it seem impossible 
to you that a woman should love more than one 
man so? 

Elgar — O Eroica ! It seems horrible to think 
of. My whole nature revolts at the thought. 

Eroica — No, Elgar ! Not your nature — 
your inheritance — your acceptance of traditional 
standards. 

Elgar — Perhaps ! But, O Eroica ! How 
could I endure to think of you as loving any 
other man than me with the sex-love? 

Eroica {sweetly and gently as to a child) — 
But, Elgar, vou must endure it, — because I do! 



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You know I told you that I would never be a wife 
to you, — that I would not consecrate myself 
sexually to any man. 

Elgar — But, Eroica, — I thought this was 
because of your art — that you did not wish to 
have children — that you — that you — 

Eroica — No, Elgar ! This is true, — but it 
is not the reason. I love another man sexually, 
much more intensely than I do you, — just at 
this moment, — while I love you deeply — truly. 

Elgar (in anguish) — O Eroica! Eroica! 
Can this be? 

Eroica (zviih exquisite gentleness) — Yes, 
Elgar. But I do not love you the less for that. 

Elgar — Eroica, you put poison into the cup 
of our love. I can never have joy in it again ! 

Eroica — And you are a man who reasons? 

Elgar — Yes, but I am more a man who feels. 

Eroica — But, listen, Elgar ! What is it you 
feel? What takes away your joy in our love? 

Elgar (fiercely) — The fact that another 
shares it with me, — has the larger share. 

Eroica — O Elgar ! I have loved you for 
your generous and noble soul. Is this the part 
of such a soul? 

Elgar (bitterly) — You outrage nature, Eroica. 
Never since the world began has man felt other 
than I do. 



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Eroica — Ah! did I not tell you, Elgar, that 
it is tradition, inheritance, and not nature that 
makes you feel so? 

Elgar — Tradition has become a part of 
nature, then, Eroica. 

Eroica — Perhaps, with some natures, — but 
is this a reason for permitting it to continue so, 
as we develop in reason? Is not nature always 
moving through evolution to a higher and higher 
plane? Is it worthy of a man of your broad, 
noble principles of life, to let yourself go on 
feeling thus ? 

Elgar — I begin to believe, Eroica, that a 
man's feelings are the biggest part of him. 

Eroica — And yet — passionate artist as you 
are, — you are the last man to let your feelings 

— your primitive emotions — dominate your art 

— override your intellect, — why should they 
dominate any other part of your life ? 

Elgar — Almost thou persuadest me, Eroica ! 

Eroica — O Elgar ! I would not persuade you. 
I would have you reason with yourself, and find 
the truth within you. 

Elgar — My mind is a tempest, Eroica. My 
reason and my feelings are so intermingled in this 
matter that I can not separate them, — just yet, 

— I must have time. 

Eroica — Elgar, if you could rise to the noble 



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height of continuing to joy in my love — al- 
though I love another more than I do you, — 
of continuing to love me although you do not 
possess me, — then might we go on in blissful 
association, — continuing to inspire each other to 
the highest reaches of character as well as of art. 

Elgar — But what if I should fail, Eroica ? 
What if the consciousness that we are not all in 
all to each other should sometimes break in upon 
me, to break out in my life. 

Eroica — Then, Elgar, if you are the noble 
soul I take you to be, you will rejoice that I can 
not be goaded by that consciousness in you, — 
that I am free from any responsibility to that con- 
sciousness. 

Elgar — But, Eroica ! Can anyone be so free 
as that in the social order? 

Eroica — I think so, Elgar (very szvcctly). 

Elgar — Is such freedom compatible with the 
love that helps and inspires others? 

Eroica — Does my love help and inspire you, 
Elgar ? 

Elgar — You know that it does — you know 
that it does, Eroica ! 

Eroica — Would you give it up — such as it 
is? 

Elgar — No — no — Eroica ! 

Eroica (mith caressing tenderness) — Do you 



62 FREE 

feel that you need to do anything to bind that 
love more closely to you, Elgar? 

Elgar — Oh, no, Eroica ! 

Eroica — Would you go through the farce of 
trying to make me responsible to a legal bond, 
instead of to myself — for that love ? 

Elgar — Not — not nozv, Eroica ! 

Eroica — Do you think that any bond or con- 
tract or promise, or any such thing, — could 
force out of me any higher or greater or finer 
love than I give you now, — any more help or 
inspiration to your life? 

Elgar — No, Eroica ! 

Eroica (zuith exquisite cJianii) — Do you love 
me still, Elgar? 

Elgar — O Eroica ! you know that I cannot 
help but love you ! 

Eroica — Then you have your answer, dear 
Elgar. The love that helps and inspires is com- 
patible with the most perfect freedom from bonds 
or consecration, or any such thing. I am all the 
better able to love you that I am free, and you 
are free to love me all that you are able. See, 
my beautiful Elgar ! My young god ! Kiss me, 
dear! (Elgar takes her hands in his, places 
them upon his shoulders, drazvs her tozvard him 
gently, and kisses her on her brow, her eyes, her 
mouth with grave and tender passion.) 
CURTAIN 



ACT THIRD 

Scene — The same 

{Curtain rises upon Professor Bartlett, stand- 
ing, one hand upon the back of a chair, his face 
turned zvitli eager expectancy tozvard the door 
through zi'hicJi Eroica is to enter. Slie enters. 
They ga::c at each other zvith an expression bor- 
dering upon ecstasy. They approacJi each other 
slowly. ) 

Erskine — I could kneel to you, Eroica ! 

Eroica — And I could kneel to you, Erskine. 

Erskine — The moment I see you again, 
Eroica, I know that you are all to me that a 
woman can be to a man. 

Eroica — Tiie moment I look into your deep, 
glorious eyes, Erskine, I know you to be my 
perfect mate. 

Erskine (taking her info his arms) — And 
this, after all these years of separation? 

Eroica — It was so in the beginning with us, 
Erskine, and it must continue to be so eternally. 
( They sit dozun. ) 

Erskine — I have learned much, Eroica, since 
you told me that you did not need to be my wife 
— I understand you now. 

Eroica — I knew the time must come when 
you would, Erskine. And yet you love Agatha 
as you always did? 



64 FREE 

Erskine — I have loved Agatha the more and 
more sweetly, as I came to understand you. 

Eroica — And Agatha ? 

Erskine — She understood in the beginning. 
She has always understood. 

Eroica — Dear Agatha ! And, O Erskine ! 
what beautiful work you have done for the world 
in your teaching and writings upon child psy- 
chology. If your ideals could be put into ap- 
plication we should soon have a new race — a 
race of gods ! But let us go back to when we 
parted, Erskine. You were grieved and crushed 
that I did not marry you? 

Erskine — Yes, Eroica! 

Eroica — Do you wish now that I had done 
so? 

Erskine — No, my Eroica ! I could not see 
then, what you saw with prophetic vision — but 
I know now that your life would have been 
warped and blighted. 

Eroica — Yes, Erskine. And yours would 
have been unspeakably trammeled for my sake, 
as well as your own. Although no man in 
marriage can possibly hamper his true life in 
the world as a woman can hers, by becoming a 
wife. 

Erskine — Yes, Eroica. I see — I see — I 
have seen it for Agatha, 



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Eroica — And, Erskine dear, have you been 
able to realize for yourself that ideal of love 
embodied in a wife — a child — a home that you 
felt it so necessary to live for then ? 

Erskine — Dear Agatha has been an angel to 
me, in all these years — 

Eroica — And yet ? — 

Erskine — And yet I know that her individ- 
uality has been cramped, — her life narrowed by 
the faithful holding to this ideal of wifehood, 
that was hers as well as mine. 

Eroica — And your child, Erskine? 

Erskine (ivith the pain of an almost super- 
human sympathy and tenderness in his face and 
voice) — Nothing can take away our joy in our 
child, Eroica, — but oh, the bitterness of her 
affliction to both of our hearts ! 

Eroica — And your home, Erskine ? 

Erskine {ivith a smile of mingled pathos and 
humor) — We can scarcely be said to have had 
a home in all these years, Eroica. I have been 
obliged to be so nomadic, in the pursuit of my 
studies and in my lecture courses. We have 
boarded most of the time {ivith an expressive 
grimace and shrug). And our little Eroica 
{zvith thrilling tenderness) has spent almost all 
of her precious little life in an institution, as you 
know. We owed it to her to give her the best 



66 FREE 

advantages the world offers to one afflicted as 
she is, and, thanks to your generous love, we 
have been enabled to do this, — but it was incom- 
patible, of course;, with having her with us — in 
a home. 

Eroica — And the child is a musical genius, 
Erskine, — with creative faculty ? 

Erskine — Judges tell us so, Eroica. 

Eroica — She is my child, Erskine, — mine 
as well as yours and Agatha's. 

Erskine (zuith passionate f error) — She is the 
world's child. 

Eroica — Yes, Erskine, you have put it per- 
fectly. She is the world's child. But until the 
world is developed to the point of recognizing its 
children and providing for them with the best 
it has to give, its parents, its handicapped parents, 
must do the best they can. And I am one of 
little Eroica's parents, am I not, Erskine ? ( With 
sweetly insinuating grace of manner.) 

Erskine — O Eroica ! — I sometimes think 
you are her only parent, — you have done almost 
everything for her. 

Eroica — And what joy this has given to me, 
Erskine. Not that she is the only one. I have 
many such children. But as you are the dearest 
soul to me in all the world, Erskine, so your 
child is the dearest to me of mv children. 



Lof 



FREE ey 

Erskine — And I am still the clearest soul to 
you in all the world, Eroica? That great world 
that kneels at your feet ! 

Eroica — You were from the very first — and 
you have never ceased to be for one moment in 
all the time and distance that have separated us. 

Erskine — And I, through all that time and 
distance, have only realized more and more fully 
from day to day the depth, the richness, the 
inevitableness of my love for you. 

Eroica — I knew when I saw you at the 
opera that this was so. And yet, my Erskine, 
you realize that I have loved, — that I still love 
other men? 

Erskine — In the same way that you love me, 
Eroica? (With a quij:cica} little smile.) 

Eroica — Yes, Erskine — but not to the same 
degree — you understand, oh, my Erskine ? 
{Appealingly.) 

Erskine — I understand, Eroica — I under- 
stand ! — you have no need to explain aiiything 
— now! 

Eroica — O Erskine ! what unspeakable ecs- 
tasy this is ! To find that you understand me as 
I understand myself, — to find that I understand 
you as you understand yourself — to find that we 
are more each other than we are ourselves (zvith 
szveet, lozv, rippling laughter). What joy it is 



68 FREE 

to be a woman, Erskine, to feel toward a man as 
I feel toward you. 

Erskine (rising) — Virility has a new mean- 
ing, my Eroica, when a man knows a woman to 
be his perfect mate, as I know you to be mine. 

Eroica {rising, in rapturous tones) — All 
beauty, all joy, all life seem to flow from you to 
me, Erskine ! 

Erskine — All beauty, all joy, all life seem to 
flow from you to me, Eroica ! 

Eroica — We are one, Erskine — so that I 
know not where I begin to be you or you begin 
to be me. 

Erskine — We are a sphere of love, Eroica, 
with all of the universe miniatured within us. 

(Their anus encircle each other, their lips 
meet.) 

CURTAIN 



ACT FOURTH 

Scene — Simple drazving-room in the Hat of 
Professor Bartlett.) 

{Curtain rises upon Agatha Bartlett looking 
expectantly toward the door of entrance, which 
the bell-boy has just opened to usher in Eroica 
Ardenza, ivho is in carriage dress. 

Agatha {extending both hands to Eroiea) — 
Yon have seen and heard our darUng child ! 

Eroica {takiiig Agatha's hands) — Yes, 
Agatha ! 

Agatha — And she is — what they say — a 
musical genius? 

Eroica — I feel that I have every reason to 
think so, Agatha, — and I am not alone in this, — 
I took with me experienced and trained judges. 

Agatha — My darling child ! 

Eroica — Yes, Agatha, your child is a genius 
of noble order. Not with the sort of precocity that 
goes up like a rocket in extreme youth, to come 
down a burnt stick in maturity, but a nobly en- 
dowed, though as yet, of course, only partly de- 
veloped soul. She will compose great things 
some day, — things of the character that Richard 
Strauss is opening up vistas of. She has done 
some wonderful pieces of work already. 

Agatha — O Eroica ! How happy I am ! My 
life has not been wholly in vain ! 



70 FREE 

Eroica — Why do you say this, Agatha? 

Agatha — O Eroica ! 3'ou know what the pas- 
sion of my hfe has always been, — to train the 
young — to guide their opening minds — to see 
their Httle faces glow with the apprehension of 
truth, — and I have been utterly prevented from 
living this passion of my being, — even with my 
own one little ewe lamb. 

Eroica — Yes, Agatha, — I see. Your con- 
secration to wifehood has prevented you on the 
one hand and little Eroica's affliction on the other. 

Agatha — Yes, Eroica. And I had thought 
that in becoming a wife I should be taking the 
most certain way to insure to myself life-work in 
the direction of this, my passion and special 
faculty. 

Eroica — And when you found, as the years 
passed, that you had made a mistake in this, — 
was there no way to rectify it, Agatha? 

Agatha — You must try to realize that it took 
time to make this discovery, Eroica, and that 
custom, pecuniary conditions, Erskine's ideals, 
the habit of living together and depending upon 
each other in many ways, kept enmeshing me 
more and more, — until my passion, for want of 
exercise, became but the embers of the enthu- 
siasm that first was mine. 

Eroica (tenderly) — I see, Agatha! I see! 



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Agatha — Your enthusiasm, Eroica, is as 
fresh today as ever it was. 

Eroica — Yes, dear Agatha, and so would 
yours have been if you could have kept it alive by 
exercise, — as I have done mine. 

Agatha — Perhaps, Eroica! But (sadly) I 
can never revive it now. But my — our child, 
Eroica ! How did she receive you ? 

Eroica (zvith glozmiig countenance) — She 
called me Musical Mamma. She said, " Let me 
see you," meaning Let me put my fingers on your 
face. Oh, those exquisite fingers. I can feel 
them still. And she said, " Your face sings, 
Musical Mamma." Then my tears fell on her 
fingers, and she said, "And these sing, too. 
Every thing sings to me. Musical Mamma. I do 
not need to have words put to singing. Things 
that sing have their meaning in themselves. 
Tones have in them more than words can say. 
I shall make a song for you one day. Musical 
IMamma, — a song without words, — in which 
your voice will tell all that the music could say. 
The tones of the violin, of the flute, of all in- 
struments, tell all that the music would say with- 
out words. Think how much more the voice 
ought to do this — the voice of a living soul." 

Agatha (weeping gently) — My little one! 
My little ewe lamb ! 



72 FREE 

Eroica {with fervor) — Agatha, she shall lack 
nothing that the world can give to foster her 
genius. 

Agatha — Oh, what a poor mother I must al- 
ways be to her by comparison with you ! 

Eroica — Agatha, you must not speak so ! 
You brought her into life. You could not have 
done this, in the present social order, — except 
with great injustice to her, — without being a 
wife. All is well, Agatha dear! But you see how 
impossible it is for any one of us to be all in all to 
those we love. You with your perfect mother 
genius cannot suffice to your child as mother 
even. And so it is in all our relations. No one 
woman's love, be she ever so perfect a wife, can 
suffice to any man, — no one man's love, be he 
ever so perfect a husband, can suffice to any 
woman. The time will come when we will realize 
this and cease this poor struggling to be all 
things to our beloveds and to greedily demand 
of them to be all things to us. 

Agatha (sniiling through her tears) — Speed 
the day, Eroica ! But here comes Erskine ! 
(Professor Bartlett lets himself in zvith a latch- 
key. He goes to Agatha, puts his left onn about 
her, and extends the right hand to Eroica.) 

Erskine {to Agatha) — So you are mother to 
a genius, little woman, — as a reward for being 



FREE 73 

wife to me ! That is some compensation, isn't it, 
sweet mother-heart ? 

Agatha — I have needed no compensation for 
being wife to you, Erskine. 

Erskine — Nevertheless, dear, you have been 
unable to live out yourself. You have nobly 
tried to help me in my child psychology, — but 
this was not your genius. You have had to 
crucify that ! You have your child, our child, it 
is true, — but in a social order that did not cruelly 
demand of you to be a wife as well as a mother 
lest you bring a curse upon your child — you 
might have had both, — your child and your life. 
Ah, well! (Tn Eroica.) She hath done what 
she could {suiiling through HUing eyes). 

Eroica {zvith tears in her voice) — Blessed 
art thou among women, Agatha! {Then with a 
choruiingly mischievous smile) But tell me 
truly, Agatha dear, would you wish your little 
Eroica to be a wife? 

Agatha — O Eroica ! How can I answer 
you? Not — not — if she must needs crucify 
her genius. No! no! — and yet — (looking at 
Erskine zvith beseeching tender gacc) 

Eroica — Erskine, would you wish to see her 
marry ? 

Erskine (zvith a smile of quiet humor) — I 
would, Eroica, that the social order were evolved 



74 FREE 

to that stage wherein there should be no more 
marrying or giving in marriage. 

Eroica — You answer me, Erskine, as the 
echo of my own soul. But now we must plan for 
the little Eroica. She must have the best masters 
the world affords at once. She must go to Eu- 
rope, and some one must go with her to care for 
her, minister to her, lead her to and from her 
lessons (looking steadily and szuectly at Agatha). 

Agatha {zvith eager eyes and quickening 
breath) — Ah! 

Eroica (with tender raillery) — You would 
not wish to take this care upon yourself, Agatha, 
it would interfere with your wifely duties. 

Agatha — O Erskine ! 

Erskine — It is settled, dear Agatha, that you 
are to go, if you zvish it. 

Agatha {toj'u in spirit) — O Erskine, do yau 
wish it? 

Erskine (zvith deep feeling) — Should I love 
our child less than you do, Agatha? 

Agatha — Forgive me, Erskine ! (laying her 
head upon his shoiddcr and putting one arm 
about his neck.) 

Erskine — You are to have a small income 
of your own, Agatha, — settled upon you for 
life, — so that you can be quite independent of 



FREE 75 

your tyrannous husband (wit]i tender huiiior in 
his expression). 

Agatha — O Eroica ! How can we accept all 
this from you? 

Eroica {in gleeful tones) — As the children 
accept things, Agatha, — as if they come from 
the universal and inexhaustible sources of life. 
And now I must leave you to make your plans. 
(To Erskinc) Don't come down with me. {To 
both) I shall come again tomorrow. Au revoir. 
{They zvatch her go out zuifh faces beaming with 
love. ) 

Agatha — Erskine, it is Eroica who is your 
soul-mate and not I, dear. I have always known 
this, — but never so clearly as now. Erskine, 
dear, if I should desert you {laughing softly) — 
so that you could obtain a divorce, — could you 
and Eroica come together in the fullness of love ? 

Erskine — No, Agatha, Eroica and I could 
never liz'c together, if that is what you mean. 
You must see that, dear ! How could she live her 
life? How could I live mine? 

Agatha {ztnth deep seriousness) — Erskine — 
you and Eroica should have a child {Erskine' s 
countenance glozus). You could not have this 
child without marriage, — but you could marry 
without living together. Eroica could marry you 
without losing her freedom because your ideas 



ye FREE 

are hers, — if you were free from me, Erskine ! 
And you shall be free some day, — and this not 
that I love you less — but that I love you more. 

Erskine (putting his arms about her and 
tenderly stroking her hair, zvhile he gases raptur- 
ously into space) — O Agatha! Agatha! 

CURTAIN 



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